


Where We Go to Rest

by impulse_baker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1980s, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Eventual Smut, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9296771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulse_baker/pseuds/impulse_baker
Summary: AU - “You don’t think you deserve to be saved, Dean. You think that the principle of cause and effect and karma rules the land and holds order in this world because you’ve made it so in your head. You think that everything that has ever happened to you has been something you’ve brought onto yourself. You’ve stopped wanting to be saved because you think accepting your punishment will serve as atonement and one day the world will be at peace with you because of it. You crave forgiveness for wrongs you haven’t committed. You submit yourself to these hardships and muscle through them thinking it is righteous.”





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a while ago and didn't ever think I was going to post it anywhere, but after a bit of encouragement I thought, what the hell, might as well. Hope you enjoy(:

_Friends come and go, but family is forever. That is what I’ve always been told, seen on inspirational canvases. But what about those people who don’t have family? Are they condemned to a life of fickle newcomers and deserters? If a friend becomes family, do they follow the first part of the phrase or the latter? And regardless of the outcome, does that instance not negate the wisdom of the saying altogether?_

Dean stopped typing and rubbed his throbbing temples with his index fingers. His eyes were starting to ache from staring at the sheet of paper slotted in his type writer so long and his back was sore from slouching in different chairs all day. He looked at his wall where his law degree was framed, collecting dust. Circling the space around the frame were various colored tassels from his years of schooling. It was his mother’s idea of decorating his otherwise plain room, which he obliged to humor her. She insisted that he hang his other degrees and honors but he claimed all those holes would damage the paint job.  In reality he simply did not want to remind himself of all the years he toiled, only to end up back where he started. He almost laughed at himself, if he wasn’t so tired.

His half of the room was contrasted by the crowded walls that were on his brother’s side of the room. There were posters of his NLF heroes Joe Montana, Leo Nomelleni and Jimmy Johnson lined up on the wall next to his bed. A framed picture of the two brothers and their mother hung on the adjacent wall, neighboring various movie posters. It looked messy, haphazardly put together in Dean’s eyes despite the fact that they were all neatly arranged, but he never protested to any new additions his brother made to the growing mosaic.

Dean stood up, stretching his arms above his head, standing up straight to release the tightness in his spine, and resumed his slouched stance. He walked over to his window which was slightly open, letting in a light breeze. He pried the window open, cringing at the creaking and extra force it took to lift up, and stood there, watching the people bustle about on the streets below him. The sun was setting, covering everything in an orange glow, softening the view. He looked at the brick apartment building across the street and saw Mr. Shang watering the different plants on his balcony, looming over each pot with a sort of paternal devotion. He saw Jasmine leaning out her window, hurriedly putting out a cigarette on the wall and waving at the air before popping her head back inside. He saw Phil and Rose through their open window screaming and storming around their living room, and he shook his head thinking they were probably fighting about Phil losing his money at the race tracks. One of the building’s gutters was broken, dangling against a closed window, murky from what the gutter spilled onto it. He could see where someone had spray painted a flattering message about Nixon under the landlord’s attempt to paint over it. On the roof there were a couple of kids who were hunched together, passing something around. _Damn kids and their damn drugs._ Dean was all about letting people do what they wanted, but he hated to see kids losing their futures because they got caught up in whatever shit was being sold on the streets.

 Below, he heard a bus hiss to a stop and groan as its doors opened and his mother Mary stepped out, carrying Mrs. White’s groceries who lived two floors below them. Dean watched her enter their building, and returned to his desk leaving the window open to let air in, and put his head down, resting it on his forearms. He listened to the constant buzzing of noise from outside and the steady whirring of his desk lamp, letting it lull him into a shallow sleep. A faint creaking and soft thuds approaching his door startled him awake and he wiped up the saliva that had pooled on his desk under his face.

“Dinner’s ready, hun.” His mother had opened the door, standing half in and half out of the doorway.

“I’m not really hungry right now, maybe later.” How did she already have dinner ready? She could not have been home for more than a few minutes, unless he dozed off longer than he thought. He looked at the clock on his nightstand. 9:14. It had been a little over half an hour, but he wanted to sleep more than he wanted to eat. She came in and sat at the foot of the bed next to where Dean was sitting at his desk. She smiled and softly scratched the top of her son’s head, looking at the dark circles under his eyes and the bald spot behind his right ear.

“What are you working on?”

He smiled tiredly, and ran his hands through his hair, letting hair that he had pulled at earlier drift to the floor. He was aware that this nervous habit of his was leaving a small patch of baldness but he always found himself absentmindedly pulling at the same spot, as if trying to pull ideas out of his head through the follicles. His mother grazed her thumb over it.

“Your grandfather had a head full of hair to the grave, and here you’re going bald before you even hit your thirties.”

Her familiar banter made him sigh through a smile, amazed at her unwavering optimism. He removed the page from the type writer and handed it to her, watching her face as he let her read the piece he was working on. Reading glasses perched on her slender nose, she raised her eyebrows in between thoughtful nods and occasional muttering, rereading certain lines she came across, and when she had gotten to his stopping point, she paused and read the whole thing again. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, Dean’s younger brother came into the room, shuffling his feet as if he was practicing a strange variation of a waltz, before he sat behind his mother and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, smacking a dramatic kiss on her cheek.

“Hey mom dinner’s ready, I think you’ll really love it. I don’t know what I made but it smells great. Come on Dean, you’re invited, too.”

Their mother stood up, laughing as she shook herself free from her younger son’s grip. “Sam, help me carry your brother to the kitchen, he’s being stubborn.”

Although Sam was six years younger than Dean, he was bigger and taller, not that Dean was small by any means. He stood at six feet one inch and had the lean muscular build of a swimmer, but Sam still seemed to tower over him, despite only being three inches taller. He was much more broad shouldered and didn’t slouch over like his brother, which made it no surprise that he had played varsity football throughout high school. He scooped up his older brother and tried to cradle him as one would a child, against Dean’s flailing limbs and grunting protests, struggling through the narrow hallway and finally releasing him at the dining table. Dean looked up at his mother and brother who were doubled over laughing and stumbling against the counters for support, and couldn’t help the twitch at the corners of his mouth. Sam shared their mother’s happiness and child-like contentment with the world and good humored nature, and he couldn’t help but envy them for it. Try as he might, he could never find the same resilient warmth in himself that his mother and brother radiated with, drawing people to them and allowing them to bask in their goodness. The ever smiling woman and the long haired giant were everything to him, and he couldn’t thank God, or whatever power was responsible for their existence, enough. Mary removed the greens and potatoes from the oven and proceeded to serve it out on three plates, and expertly setting them all on the table. Sam followed her with the small basket of rolls and sat down next to his mother and across his older brother. Dean reached for a roll and Mary swatted his hand away giving him a knowing look and held his hand in her own before reaching out for Sam’s, whose head was already bowed.

“We thank the Lord who graced us with this food, this roof and the steadfast love we share. We pray that the good Lord shower the same mercies on the less fortunate and guide them to find solace in their times of hardship. A--.”

“Mom can I add something?” Sam interrupted Mary before raising his head. She hummed her agreement and waited for his prayer.

“We ask the Lord to watch over the men around the world fighting our wars and pray He return them safely to their families, and to give strength to those who lose their loved ones overseas. We also ask that He give relief to those suffering from AIDS and give strength to those who lost loved ones to it. Amen.”

“Dean, do you have anything you’d like to add?” their mother asked softly.

“Umm…no I-I don’t think so, unless we can ask Him to smite some sense into Reagan,”

Sam tried to stifle his surprised laughter, but remained bowed, eyes closed.

“Alright. Amen.” Dean was looking down but he could hear the smile in his mother’s voice.

“Amen.” Dean murmured back.

The hot food was inviting and soon the clinking of forks and plates filled the air. Occasionally Mary would make a comment about their neighbors or something she saw on the bus or something that happened at the diner she worked at. Her sons only listened and nodded along with whatever she said, enjoying her cooking too much to interrupt their chewing and swallowing with talking. Dean savored each bite, appreciating his mother’s ingenious way of blending ingredients in a way that each bite brought on so many different flavors without being overwhelming. He could taste the garlic, salt, black pepper, rosemary, basil, and cayenne pepper individually and of course the hint of mint she added to all her dishes. It was her favorite herb and grew it in their windowsill. She had tried to grow other herbs but nothing grew as well as mint, spreading like wild fire through the tangle of the basil and thyme in the sill.

It was almost ten o’clock when they started cleaning up and they stepped around the kitchen softly to avoid more complaints from the elderly man who lived in the apartment below them about the creaking from their floors and his ceiling they caused when they walked. Sam washed the dishes, Dean dried them, and Mary put them away, a conveyer belt system they established based on the fact that their mother had the lightest footsteps, only a faint pitter patter, and the younger man could not help the weight of his feet making thumping noises when he walked. When the dishes were all clean and put away, they all resigned to the living room to watch whatever was on television that night.

There was a small light blue couch pushed up against the wall opposite the television, separated by a small coffee table. In the corner of the room there was a matching armchair with a sewn-on patch over the right armrest. Even with the minimal furnishings the room felt cramped, or rather, it felt cozy to the family. Mary sat on one end of the couch and Dean joined her while Sam, needing room to spread out, took the armchair, splaying out his legs and leaning his arms back against the rests. _The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson_ was on and Carson had Joan Rivers on the show. He eventually adjusted so that his head was cradled in his mother’s lap. As her thumb gently stroked his head, brushing against his bald patch, he felt his eyelids get heavier until he drifted off into a quiet sleep.

 

Dean awoke in his bed the next morning to the buzzing of Sam’s alarm. He laid in bed, unmoving for several moments, trying to ignore the obnoxious alarm. Perhaps he could squeeze in a few more minutes of rest before he had to get up for work. He had a shift at his uncle Bobby’s auto shop today after his day was over at the newspaper publisher he worked for, which meant he wouldn’t be home until very late. He picked up hours at Bobby’s every other day, so he was used to it, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the lack of sleep and guaranteed fatigue that followed. He shut his eyes and wrapped the sides of his pillow around his ears, trying, unsuccessfully, to block out the noise. He looked across the room at his brother sprawled out in his bed that was almost too small for him. He was rolling around a bit, as if contemplating whether to get up or not, seemingly unbothered by the persistent cacophony erupting from his clock.

“Sam, dude, turn it _off_ ,” Dean growled, dragging out the last syllable. He looked up to check the time. 6:17. He calculated in his mind how much more sleep he could get if he decided to drive to work instead of walking or taking the bus. He decided against taking his car, not wanting to risk it breaking down on the way or getting caught in the unpredictable traffic. It was a reasonable walk, about 30 minutes from his apartment at a comfortable pace, and 22 minutes if he was brisker in his steps. Walking was the more reliable option, he concluded and factored that into his calculations. If he got up now, he could take a quick shower and be done by 6:30, not rush his breakfast, get dressed and be out the door by 7:20 and the walk would be more relaxed and he could avoid sweating profusely by the time he arrived to work. He looked at the clock again, which his brother had finally quieted. 6:19. He quickly got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. There was only one in the apartment but it was never a problem because their mother was usually at work by the time they woke up and Sam always started his day working out, usually out running while Dean was getting ready for work, so it worked out for them.

He turned the shower on and immediately stepped in, not waiting for the water to warm up. The sudden immersion in the cold spray was what woke him, sending exhilarating jolts through him. He took a moment to let the sensation wash over him before he worked up a lather of shampoo in his hair. When he rinsed the shampoo out he squeezed a bit of conditioner into his palm and massaged it into his short hair. He allowed it to sit as he scrubbed himself down with his soapy washcloth. He stretched his arms around his back as far as he could, then reached over his shoulder to try and clean anything he missed. It frustrated him not knowing if his entire back was clean but he resigned to the water again to rinse the soap off his head and body. The water saw becoming warm by the end of his shower, relaxing his muscles. He counted down in his head from twenty while he stood under the warmth that was soothing his gooseflesh. At zero, he turned the water off and stepped out, dried off and made his way to the kitchen in his towel. He looked at the clock as he pulled out the jug of milk from the fridge. 6:29. Perfect. He retrieved a glass from the cabinet and sat down, pouring himself a glass of cold milk. He contemplated making toast but he rarely had an appetite in the morning and this morning was no exception, so he flipped open a book he had left on the table earlier. It was a paperback copy of Hemingway’s _Across the River and into the Trees_. He hated the author, and for this reason he loved to read his work, although he often found himself hating the story in the process. He hated the slow exposition, emotional build up, unbearably fast paced emotional decline followed by an even levelling off format that Hemingway used. He found many of the characters to be insufferable and relished in their typical unfortunate fate. He enjoyed reading his works because of the intense reactions Hemingway was able to draw from him. He admired the author’s ability to feel so strongly about his stories, regardless of the nature of the emotions.

He looked up from the pages at the clock. 7:06. He walked to his room to get dressed. Not having many options made his choices very easy. He chose a pair of khaki colored slacks and paired it with a navy short sleeved button up shirt and beige sweater vest. He had a change of clothes, boots, and a jumpsuit at the auto shop so he didn’t worry about getting this outfit dirty. He slipped on a pair of loafers without socks and shuffled over to his desk to grab the stack of papers he was working on the night before. He puts it in his worn leather briefcase and slung the strap over his shoulder before grabbing his key and locking the door on his way out. He stopped outside his door for a moment. It was rare that he would leave the house before his brother, so he unlocked the door and popped his head in.

“Hey Sam, you ok? Not going running today?”

No answer.

“I’m going to work, so I’ll see you later tonight.”

No answer.

“Ok, well, I’ll see you later.”

When he received not even the slightest groan or acknowledgement, he huffed and walked quickly to their bedroom. His brother’s face was buried into his pillow, his long limbs were tangled in his blanket and sheet, and there was no sign of any desire to get up any time soon. Dean shook him a little and this finally earned him a tired grunt.

“You ok, man?”

“Go to work Dean I’m just tired,” Sam grumbled, and to anyone else his grunts would have been unintelligible. Dean was satisfied. He stood up, ruffled his brother’s messy mane, earning him another groan and left Sam to sleep.

Even at this early hour, the streets were bustling with activity. Car horns and revving engines, whirring air condition units, bicycle bells, screeching tires, and voices created a steady buzzing around Dean. He could barely remember when it used to overwhelm him, when the constant humming of the machine that was their city intimidated him. Now it was just a monotonous mass of dulling sensations. He had wanted more out of his life, but after feeling like life meant for him to stagnate, he gave in. He would function, day in, day out, as he was meant to and accept the hand he was dealt. He hadn’t quite necessarily folded, but he wasn’t raising by any means either.

His desk at work had a memo about seeing his boss as soon as he was in. _Odd._ He didn’t think his column was so important that Chuck wanted  to personally inquire so soon about it, but he hurried off to the big man’s office, briefcase in hand.

He knocked on the glass doors which currently had the blinds drawn, so he couldn’t see inside to prepare himself for whatever was about to happen. A muffled _Come in_ came in response so he pushed passed the door to see his boss sitting at his desk, and the back of a man with black hair and a tan trench coat. Chuck set down the glass of whiskey that was in his hand and gestured from Dean to the mystery man, who had still not turned around.

“Good, you’re here. Meet Castiel Collins. Castiel, Dean Winchester.”

The stranger finally moved, turning his whole body to face Dean and seize him in his cerulean blue gaze.

“Hello, Dean.”


	2. Chapter Two

“Hello, Dean.” His voice was honey, dark and rich, and his gaze never faltered from Dean’s eyes. Dean found he couldn’t look away either, transfixed in the swimming depths of his irises, grasping for words in his head to describe them but he was drawing blank. Maybe there wasn’t a word in the English language to attribute to the shade of blue that seemed to reflect and absorb every emotion simultaneously. The man’s dark brows knit together slightly and Dean realized that he had been staring and somehow failed to notice his outstretched hand. Regaining his composure, he took his hand and gave it a firm shake, hoping to make up for the moment of loss of clarity.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Collins.”

“Please, call me Castiel.”

“Alright then, Castiel.” He rolled the name over his tongue, enjoying how each syllable felt, wanting to say it over and over again, relishing in its fitting strangeness. _Who the hell is this guy and what the fuck is happening to me?_

“Dean, Castiel here is with the District Attorney’s office. We’ve struck up a little partnership, sharing information and resources. This is your chance to get that piece, and maybe a series of columns, updates, published about that drug story you’ve been nagging me about. Answer any questions he has, show him what you already have, and take him with you whenever you go to get the story.”

He could hardly believe his luck. Maybe good things _did_ happen. He’d been trying to bring the drug problem to the front page for the longest time, but Chuck didn’t think it was something people cared about enough to buy a paper to read about it. With the DA paying attention, Dean was finally getting the chance to maybe make the difference he wanted to make when he started his job. So far all he was writing were short crime fiction series, an _Ask Mechanic_ column, a froufrou _Food for Thought_ column that was surprisingly popular when it was really Dean just rambling, and a few stories here and there about things he didn’t care all too much about.

“Got it?”

Dean could only nod in response, mind too preoccupied with where to start, who to talk to, where to go, the details he would need to work out.

“Alright then, get to it. Oh and Dean?”

“Yes sir?”

“I still expect you to keep up with your other column deadlines, but you put your max effort into this deal with the DA.”

“Of course, sir.” It was definitely going to be hard to add in all the extra work, but he didn’t mind it, as long as he was getting his drug story printed. Another article meant more money and he wasn’t going to argue with that, regardless of how much it would take out of him. He contemplated perhaps working shorter shifts at Bobby’s, but he’d have to see how it went for now. They could really use the extra cash, and he’d hate to bail on Bobby like that, after everything the man had done for him.

“Shall we get started, then?” Castiel asked with the same impossibly smooth gravel that was his voice.

“Yeah, for sure. I’ve got some stuff at my desk we should look at.” Dean meant to lead the way, considering it was _his_ desk and they were beginning off of _his_ work, but as if he somehow knew where he was going, Castiel was walking in front, leaving Dean to trail after him. Castiel walked with an air of security, of unwavering confidence as if the world was at his command, and Dean envied him for it. Each stride was unhurried but purposeful and his gait was strong and steady. He kept his head up, eyes always looking ahead, locked in on his destination, like he knew exactly what part of his surroundings were important enough to zero his attention in on. He marched like a soldier.

The two of them spent two hours looking through Dean’s notes and whatever few resources he already had. Castiel would ask him questions, then follow up questions, then more questions, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Dean. The cool intensity behind the blue was slightly intimidating, and more than a little uncomfortable but Dean refused to give in to the man’s _obvious_ self-important illusion of absolute authority, and tried to maintain the stare between them, as if playing a game of Chicken. _Surely,_ he thought, _if I just show him I’m not falling for his power complex he’ll back down and stop trying to take control of my work._ Castiel proved to have no problem continuously maintaining sincere eye contact with someone and it became too much for Dean, and he averted his eyes the way a _normal person_ would do.

 “So uhh… why are you guys suddenly so interested in a couple of people getting doped up on the streets?” Dean ventured to ask.

“The mayor has made it a priority for the law enforcement to keep the citizens safe from the potential release of new drugs, from existing drugs that are ruining lives, and from criminals who are pedaling the poison.”

His answer was immediate and his voice was thoughtful, but it felt rehearsed to Dean, scripted. Did he not actually believe that it was a problem that kids on the streets were ruining their lives over a stupid high, or was there something bigger about this that he didn’t know about that Castiel was hiding from him? He didn’t want some douchebags coming in and making things worse, but he also didn’t want _nothing_ to happen, so he kept quiet. For now. But he was determined to stay involved in everything going on with the story, lest something shady happen. Besides, he wasn’t a big fan of the mayor, Michael Milton. He was a self-righteous, arrogant man who manipulated everyone, never _really_ doing good on his promises to the people. Sure, he had put some good things into effect and he tried to crack down on crime, but there was always an ulterior motive, a personal agenda for him just underneath the surface of his actions. He knew how to fake pleasant, always had a coy – and _attractive_ , if Dean could admit it – smile plastered on his face. He was an attractive man with dark thick hair that he kept neatly cut, a strong jaw and straight nose, and cold blue eyes, so it was no mystery how he was able to charm his way into winning the popular vote, despite his shortcomings in his duties. So if the mayor is the one who put the DA, and therefore this Castiel guy, up to the case, surely there was something else going on. He would just have to play his part until he could figure out what that was, stop it, and expose them all.

“So you guys didn’t think it was something worth dealing with until Mr. Mayor says something about it?” Dean couldn’t help it. This whole thing put him on edge.

“Of course we did, but there are so many other things we’ve had to give attention to. We weren’t expected to hunt down every last drug user. But this is no longer a small operation. There is something bigger, which you will be privy to, in time. Until then, I’d appreciate your cooperation. It is in everyone’s best interest.” There was something in the way he articulated his words, but it made half of Dean want to tell him to fuck himself, and the other half wanted to listen, to keep listening.

“Ok, but remember, _you_ came to _me_ , this is _my_ story, _my_ job, we’re going to do this my way, or you can find some other poor bastard stupid enough to get caught up working with you people.” He mustered enough defiance and strength in his voice as he could because _god damn_ the look in Castiel’s eyes could set something on fire.

“I am willing to work with you in whatever manner you deem would be most beneficial to the progress of the investigation, but I would like to put forth that perhaps you could benefit from my knowledge and skills. This is a _partnership_ after all.”

Dean wanted to argue, but he couldn’t find something to say to keep going against Castiel’s cool reasonability. He resorted to grunting in reluctant acquiescence and going back through his notes. Usually, he would’ve liked to already be out talking to people and following leads, but he wasn’t quite comfortable with working with Castiel. He wanted to get a feel for him before they went into the field, and so far he couldn’t find anything about the guy that would make it a bad idea to work together, other than the fact that he didn’t trust the people he worked for.

At lunch, he announced he was going to go eat, without offering to eat together or waiting for a response. He had spent too much time with the guy today, he needed to breathe. He ate alone, quickly, and returned to his desk, where Castiel was still sitting intently reading one of the rejected article drafts he submitted about the growing drug problem. It was kind of strange to see someone reading his words with such focus. The only other person who read his writing with such fervor and interest was his mom. Sure, the topic was important, but the concentration so clear on Castiel’s features was unwarranted, even for a case assigned by the mayor. The asshole must have just been looking for fallacies, spelling mistakes, any shortcomings in his writing. He must have been trying to look for things that proved he was too good to work with him. Asshat. Dean couldn’t bring himself to say much else to him for the short remaining time he worked and when it was time, he politely shook his hand and left.

He took the bus to Bobby’s garage, which didn’t help the irritated mood he was in. A woman was sitting next to him with her baby crying in her arms, and on the other side of him there was a man who was dozing off and kept bumping his shoulder. Luckily working later in the day at Bobby’s meant that he would be working alone for the most part, and getting his hands dirty, working on cars was exactly what he needed to do to blow off steam.

His thoughts kept straying to his new _partner_ and how much he dreaded going back, and how equally he couldn’t wait to get started. Castiel had just worked him up so much and it was infuriating. Maddening because the sensible voice in his head told him he was judging too harshly and he had no reason to actually hate the guy so much. He was nothing if not perfectly polite and professional. He didn’t know why, but being around him got Dean so worked up and the only explanation was that it was anger Castiel was arousing in Dean. The way he looked at Dean, like he was _looking for something_ , it got under his skin. But he wanted to actually get somewhere with his story for once, so he would muscle through and put aside whatever reservations and feelings he had about Castiel. He could get over it. They were only working together, so it wasn’t like he would have to see him after work, and that was just fine. It was perfect.

 

Whenever he worked the latter half of the day for Bobby, he was the last one to leave, so when it was time, he changed and locked up, heading out to catch the bus. Luckily there weren’t as many passengers this time, and they were all mostly quiet. The bus groaned to a stop near his apartment building and he got off, ready to end the horrible day. He was almost at the building entrance when a boy ran past him, clutching something tightly to his chest. Not five seconds later, another kid came wobbling in the same direction, bent at the waist and holding a hand to his thigh. His pants had a clear stain of blood under his hand and he had a pained expression on his face.

“Come back here you son of a bitch!” The kid yelled out in a hoarse scream. He stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk, struggling to get back up. Dean hurried to help him stand and when he got closer he could see the kid’s eyes were bloodshot and his pale skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. He was trembling, panting hard, and groaning with each movement. There was clearly a lot of blood loss at the site of the wound and Dean worried if he didn’t get this kid some help, there would be some serious consequences. He couldn’t have been older than Sam, probably a senior in high school or something. His empathic nerve was triggered and he wrapped an arm under the kid’s waist and hoisted him up to support him. As soon as he was standing, he tried to pull away and continue his chase, but Dean kept his grip firm.

“Whoa there, Short Round, you’re not going anywhere except a hospital. I gotta get you checked out like ten minutes ago. Come on, I’ll give you a ride in my car.”

“No, that fuckhead took my stuff! I need to get it back! Please, mister, let go! I have to get it all back! Let go!” Despite his condition, the slender Asian kid was actually making Dean struggle to keep him in place.

“You can file a report with the cops tomorrow, but right now –”

“No! I can’t go to the cops!”

“Dude, that guy _stabbed_ you! You have to go to the police! Especially if you wanna get your stuff back.”

“No, I can’t do that, I just can’t.”

Dean rubbed his face with his free hand and exhaled loudly. This awful day was never going to end. “Ok fine. No cops. But I have to get you to the hospital. Do you have anyone I should call? To let them know where you are?”

“Oh god please no. Don’t call anyone. Please, don’t call my mom.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want your mom to know you got stabbed and robbed? Sorry, but won’t she kind of figure that out when you get your sorry ass home?”

“Please, just, if you want to help me, please don’t call my mom. And I can’t go to the hospital.”

“ _What do you mean you can’t go to the hospital?_ You got fucking _stabbed_!”

“I volunteer there sometimes, they all know me. They’d tell my mom.”

“Kid. You… You are just… Dammit. Come on. My mom would probably the best alternative to a hospital. Come on, kid.”

The look of relief and gratitude on the kid’s small face washed over his tensed features and he willingly hobbled along with Dean’s support. The stairs were a bitch, since the elevator was still broken, and despite his groans, the kid pretty much championed his way up to Dean’s apartment.

“You got a name?”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, Kevin.”

“Ok Kevin, I’m Dean. Can’t really say it’s nice to meet you, because I’ve had such a piss day, but I guess it’s just the cherry on top that I’m helping a shady kid with a stab wound.”

“I’m not _shady_!”

“Kevin, no offense – actually, you can take offense, I donl’t give a fuck – but you got robbed and are bleeding out like Hell, but you don’t want any authorities to know, don’t want anyone who knows you to know, and want to hide it from your goddamn mom. That is _shady_. But whatever, none of my business.”

The poor kid actually looked ashamed at this, but said nothing. He just let himself be led to the Winchester apartment.

When the door swung open, Mary called out from the kitchen and Dean followed her voice. When she saw the company they had, her expression grew dark. There was fear, concern, and for some reason, a look of pain clouding her eyes. Yeah she was a mother, and this was a kid who was bleeding out, but surely she couldn’t have that level of empathy for a complete stranger?

“Good god, what happened?”

“I umm… He was outside the building. He’s hurt, and he doesn’t want to be taken anywhere else, so I figured maybe you could help him?” Dean’s voice was small, feeling all sorts of awful for throwing this on his mom. She just ushered them in and sat Kevin down, propping his hurt leg up on another chair. She quickly got to work, laying a newspaper underneath the leg, then cutting open the blood stained pants and cleaning up the wound. She worked quickly and skillfully, as if this wasn’t the first stab wound she had to fix up.

“So, honey, what’s your name?” Her gentle voice had an immediate calming effect on the kid as she worked.

“Kevin. Ma’am. Kevin Tran.”

“That’s a nice name, Kevin. Are you in school?” She swabbed rubbing alcohol all over the gash with one hand while the other smoothed comforting circles over Kevin’s hand. He winced but it seemed she was grounding him enough to get through it.

“Yes ma’am. I’m a senior in high school. Honor student, ma’am. All advanced placement classes.”

“Please, call me Mary. Advanced placement, huh? That’s very impressive, Kevin. Are you going to go to college?” The blood on his skin and the stab was cleaned up now, but she wiped the area down again for good measure.

“Yeah, Stanford. I’m going to go to Stanford next year.” His voice was shaky and pained, still panting in between words and sentences, but he seemed much better than when Dean first found him.

“Stanford, wow that’s big stuff. Dean went to Stanford. Got his law degree from there, too. Would you believe that?” She was applying some kind of ointment to the stab now.

Kevin’s eyes went wide. “Are you a lawyer?”

Dean shook his head bitterly. He didn’t need to be reminded.

“Do you work with the cops or something?”

“No.”

“He’s a brilliant writer. And we couldn’t be more proud of his work.” She looked at Dean to punctuate her words with a smile. She was also stitching the wound. Dean was kind of surprised. She was doing it like a pro. Which meant either all moms just knew how to do this shit somehow, or there was something he didn’t know about her.

“That’s really cool, Dean. My mom wants me to go to law school, too. She wants me to be the President someday.”

Dean snorted. “Well if that happens, don’t forget us, kid.”

Kevin yelped, but not out of pain. Mary had stood him up and he was all clean and bandaged up. He cried out because she took his ruined pants off him and handed him an old pair of Dean’s pants that he had outgrown, though it was still a smidge too big for the kid’s small frame. Shyly and frantically Kevin slipped into the pants and expressed his gratitude to the two of them profusely. He even hugged Mary and it almost sounded like he was going to cry, but to Dean’s relief, that didn’t happen. Dean drove him home and the curiosity finally got to him. He just _had_ to ask.

“Drugs?”

“ _WHAT?”_

“Does this whole thing have to do with drugs?” Being subtle was never Dean’s strong suit. Kevin’s stuttering and lack of response was all the answer he needed. “It’s none of my business, but watch yourself kid. You could get in some deep shit. I think you realized that tonight. Just, focus on what’s important you know?”

“Yeah, yeah for sure. Yeah.” Kevin was quiet, and Dean was content with not saying anything else the way to his home. He made sure he was ok to limp on his own and he wished him a good life. He wasn’t sure what the kid would say to his mom but it was none of his business. He did his duty as a good Samaritan, and it was time he finally got to go to bed. The day had lasted a little too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> -bloooooooooood


End file.
